With a sigh, Dr. Andre went down the laundry list of promising projects that amounted to nothing during his tenure as director of the EOA. “Back in the 1970s, ground penetrating radar was the latest technology. We all got very excited, only to be let down. Next we were abuzz about the acoustic sounding process and the promise it held to find hidden chambers, but again we were left with nothing but disappointment.
“By the time technology got around to remote controlled crawlers and tiny fiber optic cameras capable of sliding between the stones, we stopped getting excited all together. Now expeditions like yours, as long as they do not damage the historical structures, are just another source of revenue for the organization - nothing to get excited about.”
“Well keep your cynicism on that side of the tent so it won’t infect the rest of us,” Brian teased. “Nothing is bringing me down today. Alex,” he said and turned his attention back to his research assistant, “does Frank have the helicopter in position yet?”
Alex reached over to press a button on the base of a microphone that looked like it was a prop left over from a 1970s episode of M*A*S*H. “Frank, what’s your status?”
A crackly voice belonging to Frank Graves yelled over the sound of wind and a straining engine. “The status is I’m flying around in a damn death trap. Could you have found an older piece of junk for me to hover a thousand feet in the air with? This bucket of bolts belongs in a museum not in the air.”
Professor Russell expressed a sheepish grin toward the EOA director and pranced over to the microphone. “We have a budget Frank; you’ll have to make do. Now what’s the status of the equipment?”
“Easy for you to say prof, you’re safe on the ground,” the radio responded. “Let me hang my head out the side, where a door should be by the way, and have a look.”
After a brief pause Frank cried back, “Oh dear God. Is that duct tape I see holding the emitter to the landing skid? We couldn’t hit the hardware store to get some cargo straps before we left?”
“That’ll do Frank,” Brian admonished. “Let’s get down to business.”
“Fine,” the pilot conceded. “I’m hovering over the Pyramid of Khufu. I’m firing up the equipment to emit the sonic density waves. You should be getting some readings right about now.”
“The receptors at ground level are receiving the signals perfectly,” Alex reported. “It’ll take a few minutes for the triangulation program to generate a map of the pyramid. Five years to perfect this technique and it all comes down to this.”
“Five years out of both your lives and how many dollars spent? Don’t you people have better things to do with your time and money?” Dr. Andre said with disgust hanging from every word. “How many schools could have been built? How many children in Africa or Haiti could have been fed using those funds?”
With his opinion on the matter known, Dr. Andre leaned back in his folding chair. The smug smile he carried quickly vanished when his full weight hit the backrest causing the rickety wooden seat to give way with a resounding snap. His eyes exploded to the size of softballs as he collapsed to the sandy floor in a cloud of dust. He unleashed a flurry of curses in his native tongue while scampering back to his feet. Dr. Andre attempted to reclaim some of his dignified persona by dusting off his fine white wardrobe, but soon realized the garment was hopelessly soiled and stopped.
“For the love of Allah: duct tape for cargo straps, folding tables for desks, and collapsing chairs. Where did the money come from to develop your process anyway?” Dr. Andre asked while glancing back at his former chair. “This technology had to be phenomenally expensive to perfect, and while I am no expert in financial matters, your outfit appears a little hard up for funds.”
“Most of it came from government research grants and private funding. However, for the last year it’s been my checking account since everyone else has subscribed to your line of thinking. I still have faith, and I put my money where my faith is,” Professor Russell stated over his shoulder as he turned to face the director.
“For a man who runs a national historical preservation society, you seem remarkably uninterested in discovering new things about your people’s past. Tell me, have you ever been diagnosed as anhidonic?” The professor asked only half joking.
“Just because I doubt the validity of your new process and see it as a tremendous waste of time and money does not mean I am incapable of experiencing joy; I am just practical.”
Professor Russell threw up his hand to cut off the playful exchange and turned his attention back to the display screen. Frantically he gestured for Dr. Andre to join them for a better view.
“The results are being laid into the mapping grid. In a few seconds we’re going to see the great pyramid as mankind has never seen it before,” Brian observed while trying to keep his body from jumping out of its skin.
Slowly, the great pyramid took shape on screen. As more dots appeared the well known rooms came into focus. First the King’s Chamber, then the Queen’s Chamber. Next the Grand Gallery became clear along with the passageways leading to the rooms. After a few more seconds the unfinished chamber below ground could be seen. Then everything stopped. A virtual eternity elapsed with no more dots placed on the image.
Just when the professor started feeling sorry for himself and his personal finances - it happened - like a ghost materializing through a solid wall, new chambers took shape before his eyes.
As he gazed in amazement, Brian exclaimed, “My God look at that. There are two . . . three . . . no four additional chambers, and they don’t look empty do they? I may be able to pay back the second mortgage on my house after all.”
Alex laughed as she informed the professor, “You’re actually on your third mortgage by now.”
Brian gave Alex a few stiff pats on the back and continued his assessment. “It looks like the new rooms are symmetrically placed in the pyramid on the thirty-fifth layer, the same level as the Queen’s Chamber. It’s odd though. I see no way to access them without blasting through the stone exterior, and I don’t think the Egyptian government would take too kindly to that idea. Right Dr. Andre?”
The question met stone silence.
“Go ahead and have Frank move the helicopter to the other two pyramids. Let’s see if they have the same chambers.”
Turning his head toward Dr. Andre, the professor availed himself to a well-deserved ‘I told you so’ moment. “I want to clarify. When you write your book and do all the talk shows about this unparalleled discovery you so thoroughly doubted, remember that Russell is spelled with two Ls.”
Chapter 3: The Doctor will see you now
The loud blast of a car horn startled Jeffrey out of his daydream. He took a second and looked around to regain his bearings. Oh yes, stuck in traffic again on his way to work on an otherwise beautiful spring Monday morning. As traffic began moving again, Jeffrey straightened up in his seat and mentally changed gears into work mode. Psychiatrists already had a reputation for daydreaming while pretending to listen to their patient’s problems, no need to reaffirm that image.
He pulled his beige, late model Volvo up to his reserved spot and smiled upon seeing a sign that read ‘reserved for Dr. Jeffrey Holmes’ at the end of his hood. Those five years of doctoral study at the University of Michigan were the most challenging of his life and he took great pride in the accomplishment.
Dr. Holmes got out of the car, stopped to straighten his tie in the side mirror, and then proceeded to start his workday. The Henderson Home State Psychiatric Ward building was not a particularly impressive one. It stood a single story high with dark brick exterior and tall, narrow windows every fifteen feet. The building sat in a valley relative to the neighboring buildings; which happened to be poorly maintained government housing. The symbolism of the building being lower than its already dismal surroundings was unmistakable; the world wanted to pretend these patients did not exist.
The truly tragic part about the facility was many of the patients could be treated
if time and money allowed. As the only licensed psychiatrist employed there, Dr. Holmes was charged with monitoring all 130 patients on his own. That allowed him to spend just one hour per month with each patient. The situation was infuriating since nothing meaningful could get accomplished with less than two hours per week of treatment. The implied mandate from the state was quite clear - drug them and keep them comfortable. This was not why Dr. Holmes became a psychiatrist. He pursued the noble profession to help people, not this.
Jeffrey entered his office and found Tara hanging up the phone. His assistant was a lovely young woman in her early twenties. She was fairly tall, had long dark hair, with a sharp figure and an equally sharp mind and personality. If only he were twenty years younger. Instead Jeffrey had to make do with living vicariously through her stories of bar hopping and traveling to Las Vegas on the weekends with her friends.
“Good morning Dr. Holmes, did you have a nice weekend?” Tara asked with an entirely too chipper greeting for a Monday morning.
“Oh, it was very nice right up until this morning. My three-year old is trying to master the finer points of potty training. I’ll spare you the details, but let’s just say a second shower was involved for me this morning,” Jeffrey replied. “Judging from your glowing mood I’m guessing your weekend was filled with more than the usual fun."
“Well, it may come off as fairly tame in comparison since it didn’t involve anything so wild as a golden shower,” Tara replied as she observed Jeffrey’s cheeks turn ever so slightly pink. “On Saturday we went to that new club off Fifth Street, The Monkey Bar. They had the best live band playing. They called themselves That ‘80s Band and they really got that place going.”
“The ‘80s?” Jeffrey asked in mild surprise. “That’s getting a bit into the oldies for your generation isn’t it? That’s even oldies for me.”
“Seriously, it was a great time. Choose any iconic song or singer from back then and they nailed it. They were so into it they even wore head banger wigs and all the god awful ‘80s attire to round out the image. It was just nuts.”
Jeffrey looked side-to-side then cracked a smile as he whispered, “You do realize saying the word nuts in a psychiatric facility is not considered good form don’t you?” He gave a quick wink and continued, “So, what does my schedule have in store for me this morning? Paranoid delusional, schizophrenia, Alzheimer, or depression perhaps?”
“I’ve got a real treat for you this morning. We have a new patient starting with us today who I know you’ll find interesting. He checked himself into the facility and has no past history of mental illness, nor does anyone in his family line. It’s like he just had enough of the real world for a while and needed to get away. He goes by the name Hastelloy.”
“Is that his first or last name?” Jeffrey asked out of reflex to hearing the odd name.
Not quite knowing how to respond, Tara took the direct approach. She looked Dr. Holmes right in the eyes and said, “Yep, he just goes by Hastelloy.”
Jeffrey cocked his head to the side a bit, pausing to consider the unexpected answer, “Well, that’ll be my first question then won’t it? Can I have his file, and give me a couple minutes to settle in before sending the patient in please?”
“You got it boss,” Tara said with a mock military salute.
With a friendly nod, Dr. Holmes turned and proceeded through the inner door to his private office. The room was actually quite large but it felt smaller thanks to the anemic presence of only one tall, narrow window along the back wall. His desk was off in the corner allowing a sofa, two formal sitting chairs, and an oval coffee table in the center to dominate the room.
Dr. Holmes sat down at his desk, opened the file and got to know his new patient – Hastelloy. He was a management consultant, in his mid-forties, never married and no children. For most people, never married and no kids would be unusual but for a management consultant, who was probably on the road fifty weeks out of the year, it was a pretty common circumstance. Maybe a few divorces thrown in the mix would have been more typical. Nothing really stood out about the man except his name.
On a whim Jeffrey brought his desktop computer to life with a wiggle of the mouse and opened a Google search window. He carefully typed in the letters exactly as they appeared on the folder H-A-S-T-E-L-L-O-Y, and hit enter. There was only one result, but it gave a concise definition.
Hastelloy – a highly corrosion-resistant metal alloy capable of surviving under high-pressure, high-stress service in corrosive environments where more common materials fail.
“Survive under high-pressure, high-stress service,” Dr. Holmes repeated softly. “Physically maybe, but we will have to see about mentally.”
With that thought there was a knock at the door, and Tara entered the room escorting Hastelloy along with a particularly large and muscular orderly named Terry assisting. Most of the patients at Henderson Home were not prone to violence but it didn’t hurt to show a stout presence in the room just in case.
Dr. Holmes got up and met the man in front of the couch and chairs arrangement. First impressions were important and Hastelloy definitely made one. He was a few inches over six feet with broad muscular shoulders and arms to go along with his short salt and pepper colored hair and tanned complexion. He must get all the girls at bars when he’s on the road with his consulting projects Jeffrey thought.
What was particularly striking about the man was the confidence conveyed in his facial features. There was no sign of stress or worry, but every indication of intelligence as he took in the nuances of his surroundings. This man owned himself plain and simple. What in the world was he doing here?
Jeffrey extended his hand to greet the patient, “Good morning, I am Dr. Holmes. I’ll be responsible for your treatment during your stay here with us at Henderson Home.”
Hastelloy met Jeffrey’s handshake with a stiff but not crushing grip and locked eye contact. “Thank you for the warm welcome Dr. Holmes. Tara has told me a great deal about you, and I have every confidence my time here will be well spent.”
Where on earth could that accent have come from? It was like every, and yet no discernable speech pattern all at once. “That’s a very unique accent you have, may I ask where you’re from?” Jeffrey inquired.
“Lots of places.” Hastelloy responded and after a brief pause continued, “all of them wondrous and leaving a distinct impression. So, Dr. Holmes tell me, where is Mr. Watson? The great detective can’t be expected to solve the great mystery that is me without his trusty side kick can he?”
Jeffrey tried to count the number of times he’d heard that joke before. “I see you’re a well read man if you know the likes of Sherlock Holmes and his dear Watson. You must realize you’re not the first person to use that joke on me though.”
“Yes I do, but Sir Arthur Conan Doyle would still have appreciated the joke I think. His writing may have been straight laced, but he actually had a great sense of humor. I do miss swapping stories with him over beer and a game of chess, but time moves on.”
It does indeed; especially considering the famed author of the Sherlock Holmes novels died in 1930.
Dr. Holmes suddenly realized they were still standing in the middle of the room holding hands and locked in each other’s gaze. Jeffrey broke eye contact to look at Tara. “Thank you for showing him in. I’ll call you when we’ve finished the session.” Jeffrey shifted his line of sight to the orderly still standing at the door, “Thank you, Terry, I think it’s safe for Hastelloy and I to talk in private.”
With that, Terry immediately turned and left the room. Tara took a brief moment to exchange an odd look with Hastelloy on her way out. It came and went in a flash. Was she smitten with the man, or did she perhaps know him already? The list of questions to ask this mysterious person was growing quite long already.
“Please have a seat so we can get to know one another.” Jeffrey began to gesture toward the couch when he noticed Hastelloy already taking a seat in one of the chairs. Dr
. Holmes took his seat in the other chair and turned it to face Hastelloy who looked right at home.
“Before we get started I need to ask, is Hastelloy your first or last name?”
“It is simply my name,” the patient responded. “I figure all the truly unique individuals only need one name: Madonna, Cher, and Stalin to name a few. Everyone else has two names so clearly I can’t stand for two names and the only people known by three names are infamous killers the likes of Lee Harvey Oswald, or John Wilkes Booth. Once you get up to four names people start to look at you funny so I have to conclude that one name suits me best.”
Dr. Holmes could not contain a smile of amusement. “Well met Mr. Hastelloy.”
“My father is Mr. Hastelloy, please just Hastelloy.”
“Fair enough, Hastelloy it is,” Jeffrey conceded. “So tell me, what has brought you to Henderson Home? Please start from the beginning.”
“Well, my father, whom I previously mentioned, met my mother and the love between them one day grew so strong that it resulted in a beautiful baby boy,” Hastelloy began with a straight face.
“Okay, the time for fun and games is over,” Jeffrey admonished with a stern, level tone. “I need you to be serious and honest with me otherwise you’re just wasting my time.”
A silent stare down took place between them until Hastelloy cracked a cheeky grin, “Perhaps I did go a little too far back. You have my word that anything I say from here on out will be the god’s honest truth with no games of any kind.”
Hastelloy sat up straight in his chair as he continued. “Allow me to begin with a question. Don’t you find it odd, that the Mesopotamian, Egyptian, and Chinese civilizations began almost at the exact same time in history? Up until then, Homo sapiens were hunters and gatherers roaming the countryside for whatever game presented itself. These civilizations were thousands of miles apart with absolutely no ability to share knowledge or communicate with each other in any way, and yet the three cradles of civilization sprang to life within 50 years of each other. Don’t you think that’s proof there must have been help from somewhere?”
Origins Page 2